


how did the bird break into the house? with a crowbar!

by peterstank



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, clint barton is a d-list avenger, deadpool is TRYING to be good he’s really trying!!, peter deserves a macy’s parade balloon, peter is not jealous of natasha and mj hanging out! no sir! no ma’am!, peter parker acting like a dog for three thousand words, tony deserves a talk show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24053569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterstank/pseuds/peterstank
Summary: Clint leans against the door jamb. He folds his arms across his chest and tries to look all badass and impressive, but he just doesn’t have the face for it. Nat has the face. Tony has the face. Fuck,Happy’sbetter at making his mug look angry than this guy is.“So,” Peter says slowly, trying to look dignified in his blanket burrito, “what is it that you seek?”Barton snorts. “I’m here for you.”“Is this what you do?” Peter demands. “You hide in vents and wait for people to admit that they’re bored and then you just pop out like a fucking gopher?”“Something like that.”or: mj and nat make plans together, so peter decides to hang out with clint—but he’s NOT jealous, okay?!
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 45
Kudos: 231





	how did the bird break into the house? with a crowbar!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [floweryfran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/gifts).



> this is for fran bc she came up with the idea and also: i just love her a whole lot, you know?

  
It starts when MJ’s phone won’t stop buzzing in the middle of their date. 

Well, it’s not actually a date. They’d just gone out for a movie and Chinese, but Peter Parker is the type of person that likes to kind of zone in on a person when he’s with them, focus all of his attention on what they’re saying and doing and yes, it sounds a little creepy, but it’s not like he puts on the Crazy Eyes or anything. He just really likes MJ and kind of thinks that even the way she _breathes_ is revolutionary and incredible. 

But he gets that not everyone is like that. Some people divide their attention up. MJ is sort of like a dolphin in that way: she can be texting someone and listening to someone else talk at the same time, and she’s somehow able to process all of the information separately without, like, accidentally saying what she means to text or something—which is usually what happens to Peter and it can be so fucking embarrassing sometimes.

Still, he doesn’t say anything until it buzzes for the fifth time in under a minute. “Is it Betty?” he asks, because he knows she’s been pressuring MJ to schedule another AcaDec practise meet; they’ve got a competition coming up in less than two weeks, after all. 

But MJ says, “No, it’s Nat.”

And Peter’s brain kind of short circuits. He shoots her a White Guy Blinking face. “Um, what?” 

“Yeah, we’re gonna meet up tonight. She’s teaching me how to hack.”

Peter leans across to try and see what they’re texting about.

MJ pulls her phone away. “ _No_.”

“You’re talking about me, huh?”

“I think that Alison Bechdel would throw up if she could see inside your brain,” MJ deadpans.

Peter pouts. “Meanie,” he says. “I just like, didn’t even know you guys had started hanging out.”

“Well, she showed up in my bedroom one time and dragged me down to a shooting range to teach me how to use a gun—”

“She _what_ —”

“—so now we like, follow each other on Instagram or whatever. It’s cool, she’s a good teacher.”

“I know she’s a good teacher,” Peter says, kind of defensively. “She teaches me things.”

MJ looks up at him. Her lip quirks up. “Are you jealous right now?”

“What? Me? Jealous? Please, I don’t have a jealous bone in my body. In fact I don’t have any bones in my body, I have an invisible exoskeleton made up of chitin that I shed twice a year.”

She stares. “That’s a joke, right?”

“ _Yes_ , it’s a joke. And I’m _not_ jealous.”

“Right, yeah, sure.”

Peter slumps over. He watches her while she texts Natasha. She types fast and occasionally pauses to think, and it’s frankly really cute the way that she gets that line between her eyebrows and spaces out. 

“So would you say you guys are like, friends?”

“Peter!”

“What? _What?_ I’m just asking—”

“I’m telling her you’re being territorial.”

He gasps. “You can’t do that! She’ll never let me live it down, MJ, _please_ —”

MJ’s already typing and Peter tries to grab at her phone, but she pulls it away, right up against her chest. “Sent.”

He slumps against the table in defeat. “Rude.”

MJ absently cards her fingers through his curls and it feels… it feels super nice, actually. So nice that it kind of makes him sleepy until she does that cute snorting thing and says, “She called you a dog.”

“M’not a dog,” Peter mutters, cheek pressed against the table. 

“Yes you are. If it weren’t a felony, you’d piss all over the city just so everyone would know where you’d been. We both know you get all grumpy when you find out Deadpool or Daredevil have been all up in your district.”

Peter frowns. “It’s just that like, I don’t go to _their_ parts of town—”

MJ laughs. She leans down and kisses his temple, once and then twice. “Like I said: grumpy.”

Peter grunts. Now he’s thinking about fucking Deadpool and all the fucking notes he keeps leaving Peter at crime scenes: _took care of this one for you!_ and _merked this asshole cuz you weren’t quick enough! love, DP xoxoxoxo_

It’s like, so not cool. 

“Are you thinking about it again?”

“Yes,” he admits morosely. 

MJ leans over him. “You don’t need to be jealous, Peter. This city loves you, okay? Why else do you think people leave sandwiches for you on their windowsills and graffiti you on the sides of buildings?”

Peter sits up and rubs his cheek. “I mean, they shouldn’t be doing that. It’s great and all, but it’s totally a misdemeanour.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying you’re basically the Santa Claus of New York. Give yourself a little more credit.”

He sighs. Taps the top of her shoe with his own. “I guess.”

She squints. “Are you sitting there thinking that their love is superficial because you don’t have a balloon in the Thanksgiving Day Parade?”

“I’m just saying it’s the _least_ they could do—”

She groans. “Peter…”

“—I mean, Tony’s got one and Rogers gets a whole ass float complete with dancers and batons and stuff and he’s a _war criminal_ , you know? Besides, I’ve earned my keep. I did poop scooping duty two years in a row.” He leans back. “Those goddamn horses shit more than the Hulk after Mexican food.”

MJ laughs. “You’re an idiot.”

He smiles because as cheesy as it is, he _loves_ her laugh. He loves it when she’s happy. Peter nudges her foot again and leans forward. “Let’s go back to my place, my parents aren’t home.” He pauses. “Because they’re dead.”

To anyone else it would be like, a totally morbid thing to say, but she just scoffs at him. “I’m serious,” Peter goes on. “May’s gonna be at work until like eight tonight and I’ll be so bored and lonely.”

“Peter,” she says, when he starts to kiss her cheeks, “I’m hanging out with Nat.”

Damn it. He’d totally almost had her. 

“So you’re gonna leave me all by myself?” He asks, miserable. 

“You can go on patrol,” MJ suggests, “or bug Tony, or call Ned. You don’t need me to have fun.”

“Yes I do.”

“ _Peter_ …”

He sighs. There’s no point in like, making her feel guilty or pressured, so he gives up. Peter kisses the palm of her hand. “I guess I’ll be fine.”

She brightens. “You promise? Because I can cancel, I just—”

“No,” Peter shakes his head and leans forward to give her a real kiss this time. “Hang out with my creepy Russian spider aunt, I’ll be fine. I’ll make cookies and burn the house down.”

“You don’t burn your cookies,” MJ says. She’s got that dopey look on her face and she’s smiling because she just can’t help it. “I like them. Especially when you put M&Ms in the dough.”

“And that’s why you’re my soulmate.”

It had started out as a joke, but the more he says it, the more certain he is that it’s true.

* * *

“What do you mean you’re ‘ _busy_ ’?”

“I mean I’m busy! I have deadlines to meet, paperwork to sign. There’s no time for cookies and Oprah re-runs, kid.”

“You know what I want to know? Why isn’t there a ‘Tony’ show? You have all this money, you have connections in Hollywood. You could easily rent out a studio and blow Oprah out of the water. I want to see it, I _demand_ it. You could run up and down the aisles throwing money at people! You could sit down for an exposé with Steve Rogers and give him an expensive free toaster.”

“Don’t be so quick to write off Oprah like that.”

“I’m just saying, think of the potential here. You’re depriving the masses of the best talk show known to man.”

Tony groans on his end of the call. “You’re giving me an ulcer.”

“You’re making me sad,” Peter retorts, rolling over on his bed. “I’m _sad_ , Tony. I’m all alone in my apartment and nobody loves me.”

“I love you,” Tony replies automatically. “And if you’re bored go do something. Do you need money? I’ll send you some.”

“ _No_ , I don’t need money—” 

“Too late, I just deposited five grand into your checking account.”

“ _Tony!_ ”

“What? I live to give.”

Peter sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s not touching that money. He’ll save it like he has the last five times this exact situation has occurred. 

He rolls over again and jumps, because Clint Barton is standing in his doorway. 

“I have to go,” he says to Tony.

“What? So that’s it? I give you money and you just dip out of the conversation—”

“You said you had shit to do!”

“Well yeah, but I don’t actually _want_ to do it!”

Clint raises an eyebrow. Peter glares and then says, “Be productive, Tony. Bye.”

He hangs up. 

Clint leans against the door jamb. He folds his arms across his chest and tries to look all badass and impressive, but he just doesn’t have the face for it. Nat has the face. Tony has the face. Fuck, _Happy’s_ better at making his mug look angry than this guy is.

“So,” Peter says slowly, trying to look dignified in his blanket burrito, “what is it that you seek?”

Barton snorts. “I’m here for you.”

“Is this what you do?” Peter demands. “You hide in vents and wait for people to admit that they’re bored and then you just pop out like a fucking gopher?”

“Something like that.”

“Well now I am not doing it,” Peter says, rolling over into his back. He glares at his asbestos riddled popcorn ceiling. 

Barton leans over Peter. “So what, you’re just gonna take the night off? Let people die?”

“Dude, you’ve tried to go into retirement like eight million times,” Peter snaps. “I don’t think you have room to judge.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it? Because you barely super-heroed in the first place. You’re a glorified Legolas and that’s on periodt.”

Barton groans. “The things I do for the people I actually like.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “ _Natasha_ sent you here!”

“ _Duh_. You think I came of my own volition?”

“I don’t know,” he frowns. “That’s just insulting. What, she couldn’t even bribe an A-List Avenger into chilling with me? She had to send _you?_ What’s your going rate, anyway, twenty bucks an hour? I bet that’s like the highest you can even charge. How long did she book you for?”

Clint looks pissed. Peter would be scared except, like, it’s _Clint Barton_. What’s he gonna do, shoot Peter with a long range weapon in his tiny bedroom? _Ooo_ , he’s so scared. 

“I don’t have to disclose that information.”

“I _knew it._ ”

Clint eyerolls into the next galaxy. “Look, are you gonna get up and go out with me or what? Because I could just as easily be at home with my kids right now.”

Peter sighs. “God, fine.”

He reluctantly rolls off his bed and onto the floor. Worming out of the blanket is slow, painful work. The outside world is cold and miserable. He wasn’t ready to leave the nest yet. 

Jesus, three minutes around Hawkeye and he’s already using bird analogies.

Peter stumbles around his room, suiting up while Clint noses through his kitchen. He’s eating from a sleeve of saltines when Peter comes out. 

“Are you even real?”

“What do you mean? These are great.”

“They’re _sick people food,_ ” Peter says. “I eat them when I’m dying of a fever and can’t stomach anything with a stronger flavour than cardboard.”

Clint shrugs. “I like ’em. I’m taking the box with us.”

“Where are we going?”

Clint stands and says, in the most ridiculously dramatic voice of all time, “The Roost.”

* * *

The Roost is an air duct that overlooks the lobby of Stark Tower.

“So you just like sit up here?”

“Yeah.”

“A lot?”

“I’d say so.”

“Just staring at people.”

Clint pops a cracker in his mouth. “Pretty much.”

Peter stares in abject horror. He doesn’t know what to be more offended by: the crackers or the spying. “You know there are security guards stationed at every single exit and entrance of his entire building—not to mention FRIDAY—”

“And yet,” Clint says, chewing, “we got in without being seen.”

Peter’s mouth closes. 

That is an unfairly valid point.

He turns his attention to the vent, peering through the slats. There’s plenty of people down there: running inside or out, mingling in groups despite the ‘No Loitering’ signs, and crowding around the front desk trying to flirt with the various secretaries.

“You see that guy by the elevators?”

Clint squints. “Yeah.”

“His toupee is on backwards.”

Clint snarfs. He scans the crowd. “Look at that guy over there with the Ironman tie. What an asshole.”

“What do you think he’d do if he was actually within ten feet of Tony?”

“Shit his pants.”

Peter nods. “Oh look, his briefcase popped open.”

They watch as the guy bends to pick up his various scattered papers and Peter doesn’t feel any remorse when he grins at the sight, because the guy had been pushing and shoving to get to the elevators in time and just generally seems like a douche. 

“I hope he misses his meeting.”

Peter snorts. “I hope he sweats through his shirt.”

Clint side-eyes him. “You know, you’re not as bad as I thought you’d be.”

“Thanks,” Peter says. “You’re worse.”

“Okay, rude—”

“I’m _kidding_ ,” Peter assures. Then his phone promptly blasts the _20th Century Fox_ tune. He scrambles to answer it, wondering what the hell the people in the lobby are thinking now. “Yes? What?”

“It’s me.”

Peter stiffens at the hushed, almost terrified voice on the other end of the phone. “...Deadpool?”

“No, it’s your great aunt Janet— _yes_ Deadpool! Now come, I need help!”

Peter groans. “Text me your coordinates.”

“ _Thank you thank you thank you,_ you are the _best!_ ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter hangs up and returns his attention to a scowling Clint Barton. 

“The phone stays on _silent_ in the Roost.”

“Noted,” Peter starts to scoot backward. “Come on, we’ve been summoned.”

* * *

They find Deadpool on the rooftop of a parking garage with two dudes. The dudes are tied up with rope and Deadpool is standing over them, talking with someone on the phone.

He catches sight of Peter and Clint approaching. “Oh, Mommy I gotta go, my friends are here—yes, I did get your cookies, they were very good—I’m _sorry_ I didn’t thank you, I just forget sometimes—okay, bye. Yes. I love you too. Yes. I promise. Yes. Okay. Okay. Okay.” A pause. “Okay. Yes. Bye.”

He hangs up. 

“Hey guys!”

“What the hell is this?” Clint asks, gesturing to the tied up dudes with his bow. 

“You brought an _Avenger?!_ ” Deadpool demands. “Oh man, that is so cool! You should have warned me first, Spidey, I would’ve found something way cooler than this shit for us to do.”

“Relax, he’s totally D-list,” Peter says. “But seriously, what’s going on?”

“Oh, nothing. These guys have information I need so I was gonna hang them over the side to get them to crack, but then I realised I’m not strong enough to do that so I called you.”

“You want me… to hold these two dudes over the side of the building… until they talk.”

“Yes. Good summarisation skills.”

“This is a twelve story parking garage!”

“Exactly! They’ll be terrified.”

“ _Deadpool_.”

“Spidey,” DP retorts. “Come on, please? Isn’t this better than my usual methods at least? I promise they’re terrible people, absolutely horrible. They definitely deserve it.”

Clint scoffs. “You know, there are other ways to intimidate someone into talking,” he says, and promptly aims an arrow right at one of the guys’ forehead.

Peter, Deadpool, and the two tied up dudes burst into laughter.

“Did he really think that was gonna work?!” Deadpool demands.

“I don’t,” Peter gasps, “I don’t know, man. Oh god. Oh, I’ve got a stitch. That was great, Barton.”

Clint looks kind of crestfallen. “What’s so funny?”

“No, no!” Peter tries to reassure, because he hates that look. The last thing he wants is to be a bully. “It was a good try, I promise, it’s just that here on the streets, um… that’s not really scary? Like at all?”

Clint lowers his bow. “Oh.”

Peter heaves a sigh. “Rope it is, I guess.”

“Yes!” Deadpool pumps his fist. 

The guys start protesting like they hadn’t actually expected it to happen. Deadpool is the one who drags them and tosses them over, while Peter absently holds the rope. It doesn’t even strain him. “Do your thing,” he says to DP.

“Yeah, okay,” Deadpool leans over the side. “Where’s the fucking _money_ , bitches?!”

“We don’t know! We don’t know!”

“Bullshit you don’t know!” Deadpool pulls out a knife. “Tell me or I start cutting!”

“Um, DP,” Peter piped up, “we never agreed to that.”

“Oh, we didn’t? Guess I forgot to mention it.” He leans over again. “Five! Four! Three—”

“A safety deposit box!” One of the guys screeches. “Newark! The code is 661199!”

“Perfect!” Deadpool says brightly, and promptly slices the rope. 

“Oh my god!” Peter yells, rushing to the edge. “What the hell, dude?!”

“Oh, thank sweet Jesus,” Deadpool says. “I didn’t even know that dumpster was there.” Then to the guys: “I bet you just shit your pants, huh? You’re lucky I know this city like the back of my hand and strategically dropped you where I knew there was a dumpster!”

Peter glares. “That was _not_ part of the plan.”

“What? They gave me all the info I needed.” He shrugs. “Anyway, I should probably go down and finish the job.”

“Deadpool—”

“They’re rapists!” He calls over his shoulder. He nods at Clint. “This guy was pretty useless, huh?” 

Peter sighs. He looks at Barton. “You ever just wanna like, scream?”

“Yeah,” Clint nods. “Pretty much every day.”

He leans over the side and sees that the guys have managed to get out of the dumpster. DP’s gonna have to chase them down or something. He straightens. “You wanna go get burgers or something?”

* * *

Clint says he knows a place with good food. Peter kind of zones out the whole taxi drive there, and the next thing he knows they’re standing in front of an apartment door. 

Clint knocks. 

It opens.

Natasha is on the other side.

Peter blinks. “This was _not_ my idea.”

Nat rolls her eyes and steps aside to let them in. “Hey, boys,” she says casually, as if she’d expected this all along—and maybe she had. She’d totally hired Clint to entertain him, after all. 

It’s weird: after Deadpool and all that, Peter had totally forgotten MJ would be here. She’s sitting on the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, wrapped in a blanket and typing something on a laptop. When Peter sees her it’s sort of like the sun is rising in his chest. 

He plops down beside her and snuggles into her side. “Hi.”

MJ’s fingers pause. She looks at him. “Like I said: dog.”

Peter harrumphs. Just to fuck with her, he drops his head into her lap. “Woof. Pet me.”

MJ laughs, but she does it anyway, pushing his hair from his eyes and smiling down at him. “Did you have fun?”

“I watched a couple dudes get pushed off the side of a building.”

Her eyes widen. “ _What?!_ ”

“Relax,” Clint says as he passes, “they didn’t even die.”

MJ looks back down at Peter. “You’re okay, right?”

“What? Oh, yeah, totally. Like he said, they didn’t even die. They landed in a pile of garbage.”

“So what are you cooking up, Barton?” Nat asks, grabbing a face-down book from the coffee table and nudging Peter’s legs. He lifts them so she can sit underneath. 

“What’ve you got?”

“I don’t know,” Nat shrugs. “A half eaten carton of ice cream and some eggs?”

Clint hums. “I can work with eggs.”

“He’s probably just gonna sit on them and wait for them to hatch,” Peter whispers to them conspiratorially. 

Nat snorts. “You’re a little _umnik_ , you know that?”

“Don't I ever,” Peter grins. “Ben used to call me a _meyven_. He’d pull my ear and ask me how the hell I fit all that _drek_ in my _kepi_. What a guy.”

MJ grins. “I think you could do with some ear pulling, myself.”

“Please don’t,” Peter begs. “They might be big but they’re very fragile.”

MJ tugs on one and he yelps, dramatically rolling off the both of them and landing in the crevice between the couch and coffee table. “That was rude.”

Nat leans down. “So’s making fun of Clint.”

“Are you kidding me, Natasha? He has a kid named _Cooper_. Like a _chicken coop_. You wanna try telling me that guy isn’t a total nudnik when he names his kid after a bird house? Please. You go into the kitchen right now and you’ll find an egg up his ass, guaranteed.”

Nat is laughing and so is MJ, and Peter’s grinning up at them like a complete schmuck and doing that thing where he says one Yiddish word and can’t stop saying all of them, all the ones he learned from Ben. It’s weird how randomly the missing him can come. 

But like ocean waves it ebbs back into that little hole where it lives, the one that houses Skip and the collapsed building and his parents. 

Clint comes back into view. He puts a bottle of vodka on the table and then slams down a jug of juice right beside it. “Dinner.”

Peter reaches for the vodka. Nat slaps his hand away. “Not for you.”

He sighs and looks at MJ. “I bet you ten bucks I can down that entire bottle of juice in less than a minute.”

“I’ll take that action.”

He cracks the cap and starts chugging.

**Author's Note:**

> translations: 
> 
> umnik - smartass (russian)  
> meyven - smartass (yiddish)  
> drek - crap/shit  
> kepi - a little kid’s head; a small head  
> nudnik - a boring/lame person
> 
> let me know what u thought uwu i live for feedback


End file.
